We are Something About Jazz, a group that loves making

We are "Something About Jazz", a group that loves making music anywhere from jazz to pop

120

A Decade of

121

2014

STAFF

50

He took out a cigarette with his lips; a pack of Marlboro reds, half empty.-------

A cardboard box thrown on my father’s coffee table, the walls and shag carpet inhaled the smoke and his apartment turned a shade of grey.

An orange ash tray in my grandmother’s house, an opaque womb. She leaves the remains of my grandfather’s last drag as she taps the side with the tip of her cigarette; they are making love again. Siblings and cousins fought silently about who would inherit it after she died.

“That bitch Dara isn’t getting it.”

My sister and I stand on pink stone at the back of the house.

“Nick gave this to me.”

She throws me a pack of matches and poses with the cigarette, weaving it through her fingers. The flame kisses the tip and she coughs up ashes.

I meet her years later in the subway of New York, arm wrapped around a new lover. She recites the prayer of the past and tosses me a lighter.--------

I watch him inhale, exhale slowly, fall in love. He hands me a secondhand lover, I taste nicotine, his breath. I expect November, the warmth of a whisper, the darkness of my father’s apartment.

I inhale.

The smoke that is supposed to asamblѐ through my chest gets lost in an internal labyrinth. I do not turn grey, nor cough up ashes; I feel nothing.

So I leave him.

Annmarie RaskinClairaudient

Austin Morales, The Boy Who Could, Acrylic

Derek Abella, Sunday, Mixed Media105

There’s a candle in between my jar of pens and glass ofwine that smells like you, but onlyafter it’s been lit and blownout.

And I vacillate between wanting to burn it and not, mostly becauseI’m an indecisive bitch but also because I’m sickof burning the things that I love.

I don’t believe in hypnosis but I do believe that sometimes when Ihave my hand tracing crop circles in your hair I stopwanting to chew my pens and forget that onetime my dad called me a whore forwanting to sleep in a realbed.

I don’t believe in ghosts but I do believe that sometimes when I’mburning my morning toast I can still feel yourhand, warm and constant on myback.

I’m not sure why I didn’t curse until 10th grade or allow other people to touchme until 11th, but I do know that silence next to you isn’t really silenceat all and that your eye contact is likestaring into a mirror.

Sometimes when I tell you I’m not goodenough, all I want is for you to repeat it back, but with moreconviction.

I don’t understand why I’m jealous when I see you talking to anyone else becausejealousy is a frilly emotion but I do know that I only met you thisyear even though I wish I could have said that yearsago.

I’m sorry that I can’t be happy all the time for you but I’m not even happy all the time for myself.

My mother told me to never love anything that has legs and canwalk away but I don’t reallycare much for heranyway.

Emily MendezSomething that has Legs

For some reason, the seats of our Lincoln Town Car

now smell like ten-year-old crayons rather than cheaply tanned faux-leather.

Above the steering wheel, on the seething asphalt, there’s a shallow wrinkle.

I’m wearing cologne worth more than

our house.

I don’t particularly remember why my fingers are calloused,

but I noticed that as I stuck their tips into the ground,

I couldn’t feel.

You were in the driver’s seat, hair soaked in honeymoon sweat.

We were married seven years ago,

and you still refuse to get out of your nightgown.

It is our shared fault.

There used to be four almond trees that littered

our driveway with pods, and I would kick them around after

you threatened me with divorce and laughed.

At least I kept the car clean.

Even though you can’t see it behind the sheet of exhaust,

there’s still a chip of paint on the trunk

from the second “r” in “Just Married.”

FaultDEREK ABELLA

1617

Austin Morales, Harlot, Acrylic on Canvas

=

Amber Plaksin, цветок (tsvyetok), Spray paint and scratch board

28

=

On 1945JOSIE LO BELLO

White-wash my fire into a shy, rosy thing.

Your bath of ink and ammonia

scrubs away at my intricacies until

I am all ashes and names and numbers.

Take care to be thorough;

Get through to the lungs and cast out every breath.

Carve through the tender divisions of the heart

and label each piece: Good. Evil.

Re-sew your flags with thicker thread of vaguer color.

Burn my footsteps from the earth

so that you may strut guiltlessly

Across the flesh of this aborted memory.

To your children I am but a myth,

an ashy shame in the glass of their grandfathers’ eyes :

two shy, rosy things that once fell on a Japanese seashore.

BRYCE

Bryce Davidson is one of America’s freshest

musical talents – an 18-year-old singer and

songwriter from Miami who’s electrifying the

entertainment world.

In the past year, she has performed in London

(Feb 2013) and New York (August 2013) to

sold-out audiences with British Singer/Song-

writer, Lauren Aquilina. She reached #1 on the

local ReverbNation singer-songwriter charts

and built a worldwide following through social

media, with more than 14,500 plays on Sound-

cloud.

“When I am not at school, you will find me

making music,” says Bryce, a 2014 YoungArts

Winner in Popular Voice.

“There is something so powerful about putting

poetry to song that makes me never want to stop.”

Nathalie

Francis

CARO BEGUIRISTAIN

Amber Plaksin

Light blinds, but in the dark you adjust your eyesDo we live in the black or white with diminished sight?If the former have we completely adjustedbona fide?What’s wrong and what’s right may have a thin lineHowever where it is cast, is different in each mindMore questions, less answers, take it without thoughtLike a bucket of Colonel SandersChew with glee; add some small talk and banterYou are now a sheep, owned by biltsVander

Chew, chew on your salad salamanderWithout doubt, no sense no antlersChew, chew on your salad salamanderWithout doubt, no sense no antlers

In this day and age where…wait54

Immortal Shadow:

a rapJake Namon

Olivia Galeiras, Instinct, Mixed Media This is not a phase; it’s always been this way Just because it was a different styledoesn’t mean the message was not the samestill controlled by fear, molded by shameWe may adhere, to changing the piecesBut never the gameWhat if the slate was scratched in such way That it didn’t need wiping away today?A whole new layer under debris and decay

For most this food for thought is simply just food for play But really, who’s to say?


There’s a madness to my methodBut I don’t keep it under wraps, I keep it under raps

To give me leverageThey call me chromos cause I’m never second to seconds

Word play, so investIt’s got its own toy and beverageBeckoned to negate the negligence, and spread the message How the overloads are invisibly twistingYour favorite appendage You get nothing in return but, false incentive You are contaminated by cancer, not infested with festives


Carlos Lopez, King of the Can, Arcylic on Canvas80

WW

Stay GoldenAnyssa Chebbi

81

His hands gripped the steering wheel as he struggled to stare straight ahead. He managed to pass by the first one despite her bright makeup color scheme and gave himself a mental pat on the back. He had his beautiful girlfriend waiting for their date at 8 o’clock; he could wait.

“They’re everywhere . . .”

He used to just be able to avoid certain parts of town. Now it felt like they were waiting for him on every street corner.

It probably had to do with the economy; in the end, doesn’t everything? They provided what every man wanted . . . and affordably. The business was growing exponentially. He kept driving. He had made it all the way to 20th street when he saw her. She was so much younger than the rest; fresher, more naïve. He couldn’t help himself. Feelings of regret were already beginning to sink in as he put his blinker on and pulled over.

As he approached her, his olfactory senses were assaulted by her strong, enticing perfume. It wasn’t at all like his girlfriend’s; this one was definitely cheaper, but sweeter nonetheless. This was his vice, his dirty habit that he’d been trying to kick. He knew it was bad for him but the perks drove him crazy. He could ask for whatever he wanted and didn’t even have to leave the privacy of his car; he was completely anonymous. It was a thrill to be doing something he knew to be so wrong, something that the government was trying to outlaw in some states. The only thing he hated was payment.

It was a grotesque necessity that made the exchange all too real. But that was it. Just as quickly as it had begun, it was over. There were no remnants of its occurrence except the balled up wrapper on the floor of the passenger’s seats but he felt it in his stomach and knew that he had cheated. He took the car out of park and drove home; away from the warm, golden arches of her embrace to the all too plain seeming salad abandoned in the fridge.

This is not a story about prostitution.

Sabrina Mendoza, In Search For A Home, Painting on Wood Block

I approached my chemistry class. Beehives of students gathered at the doorway, buzzing excitedly about their weekend plans. The atmosphere felt warm, inviting. Once in the room I saw Josephine and Danielle sharpening their pencils by the door, but when Danielle spotted me, she smiled, put down her pencil, and offered me a nectar-drenched cupcake. I buzzed in delight. Sitting there waiting for the bell and nibbling my cupcake, I looked around the room and thought:

“This classroom feels like home.”

No one could have guessed that just six years ago I prayed just to be standing there.

It all began on a chilly December night in Venezuela. We were dropping my aunt off at her house when we heard car doors fiercely shutting behind us. In a dreadful second a man dressed in black was brutally pushing a semi-automatic revolver against my father’s temples. My father drew back, clenched his fist, and hit the intruder in the face. Enraged, the robber tore open the door on the driver’s side and pushed my father to the passenger’s seat, taking control of the steering wheel. In a flash, two other armed men wearing masks broke into our car. Holding us hostage, the robbers plunged through the ill-kept streets of Caracas at full speed. The suffocating fist of fear muted my voice.

Instinctively my desperate mother and aunt sat on top of me to shield me from danger. The robbers were savagely swinging their lacquered guns so close to us that I can still remember their paralyzing, cold touch on my skin. As I peered through a crevice between my mother and my aunt, panic seized my spine. I saw my defiant father tussling with the robber who thrust his gun against my father’s head. The cold sweat trickling down my

spine slashed my body open. Frantic prayers ran through my mind. I froze in horror, petrified that the robber might pull the trigger and steal my father forever—

At that moment, my father’s cell phone rang, breaking the tense silence. Without thinking, one of the robbers answered. My uncle was on the other end of the line. My family who detected his muffled voice all screamed in the background.

“Don’t dare to lay a finger on my family. . .” my uncle threatened.

The robber hastily threw the phone to the side. Anxiety and fear now possessed the three men. Their plan had been detected. Now facing possible capture, the driver abruptly stopped the vehicle on the edge of a lonely, steep path. They shoved us out of the car and watched as we rolled down the embankment.

There, lying in the mud, fearing to breathe, I could not help but dream - dream for a country that provided safety for my family - dream for a future where I could ensure my own children would live securely.

As a child of six, I began to contemplate my life under a very different light. I yearned to be here in the U.S. where I could pursue my desire to study medicine and one day establish a family freed from constant fear.

My thoughts returned to the present and to the classroom. The clamor of laughter and excited talk slowly subsided. I continued thinking about all the odysseys that I had been through and quietly smiled. A new dawn and a new sunrise bloomed in the horizon.

59

ANTONIO CHAHINE

MIDNIGHT IN CARACAS

My Artwork is a protest

60

An interview with Sabrina MendozaAnnmarie Raskin

When I first met Sabrina, I had heard of her story and admired her art but didn’t know the complete details. Her artwork, displayed in the magazine, depicts the physical impacts of poverty, a subject about the young artist is familiar which due to the condition of her home country. I had the opportunity to sit down with her and listen to the gleaming Venezuelan share her background story and the inspiration for her work.

Where are you from? What’s your background story?

I’m from Venezuela. I got here in 8th grade and I learned English and got into art. I had an audition to get into Coral Reef but I had to go back to Venezuela in November of 9th grade because my Visa had expired. I came back the next year.

How has your artwork changed since you had to go back to Venezuela?

In my artwork there is a theme of poverty. I often have paintings of poor neighborhoods and children crying. My artwork is a protest of everything happening in Venezuela.

Were you making art in Venezuela before you came to America?

There weren’t art classes in school; so, I went to drawing classes. When I came here I made portraits and they were sent into exhibitions. I started to make detailed artwork and use different techniques.

What are some differences from America and Venezuela that have impacted your art?

Venezuela has many poor neighborhoods. The people are so defeated, and they don’t care about their future. They know that things can’t get better.

Which artists have inspired you?

I’m a weird artist. I don’t take references from other artists because I’m not really familiar with other artists.

Do you want to pursue art in the future?

I want to continue art, but I can only do that if I get a scholarship.

Do you want to go back?

I don’t know if I want to live there.

Is your situation here resolved? Will you have to go back?

In two years I need to get my Visa renewed. There’s a possibility that if things get worse in Venezuela, I won’t be able to live here anymore.

Sabrina Mendoza, Revolution at its Highest Level, Acrylic

Gunfire and BrimstoneDanielle Coogan

22

A seagull routes over dead seasthat call back to eras past.Bodies lay strewn empty in the desert sunwhich burns like a vengeful diamond in an azure sky.

The intensity of colors mirrors theintensity of their lives.They live in the forgotten regionsof another man’s consciousness.

Their bodies are vehiclesraised to work andreceive no pay.

To sketch their historyis to draw boundaries withcrayons and machine guns.To tell their storyis to mistake their needs.

Across rolling cerulean hillsangels walk on the sands of time,foreigners to want or depravity.Skyscrapers rise behind them.

Gulls chatter at their picnic basketsnot knowing the hole left in eternity and the price paid for trying toown what wasn’t theirs.

23

Trystan Davis, Elliott Key, Digital Photography

32

Cry Paula Lozano

My father once told mehow to be strong,to stand above loved onesand leave where I belong.

My Mother once taught meimage is all.To appear store wealthyand push them not to fall.

Before my grandfather lefthe forgot to saycrying is for foolsand for those who choose to decay.

How absurd.

Don’t you understand that it is my catharsis?That time builds up and hardens within meuntil I burst, realizing I was suffocating,letting all the tears rush down mybody cleansing all that tainted myselfin one liberating sigh?

Don’t you realize that it reminds me I am human?That I have senses and emotions that matter,that exist- that becomeconcrete with every drop that pushesits way out from the tough shellthat you created?

Don’t you realize that I’m not weak?That I am stronger than I have ever been;I have just been strong for too long.The one being immature hereis the one that cannot embrace his own emotions.

And don’t you understand?These tears are more genuine than thatface you yield to the world.Besides, they are not for you.Don’t flatter yourself.You are stuck in a testosterone timethat will decline.

3333

Natalie Molina, Yo, Acrylic

Tiffany Zambrana, Flawless, Mixed Media Collage

78

When you bring her home for the first time,she tries to plant thick roots in your mattress.They never bloom because her hands slip on the weeds that keep spreading even as you keep your hands pressed against her concave cheeks.

Once, she says she is an afterthought and each call of her name on your lips is a rebirth.Like learning how to crawl again, she reaches for you.And you, half-mast, guide her to shore. But most days, you are a tugboatdesperately searching for the distant light of her whispers,to find our way home.

She squints to find the smattering of stains she’s left behind on the grooves of your hips like washcloth promises – wrinkled at the edges. She traces them like constellations and names each one,whispers them against your skin when she thinks you are not listening.

You look away; you’re always listening.

But her native tongue is destruction, forged by her own fire and you’re trying to learn the language in your own way:soft-spoken shatters into her sleepless nights you feel her stirring and you keep her eyes shut,the sound of her blood drumming in your ears is the sound of the solid ground beneath her slipping as she grows restless once more.

And while she lays there, civilian plane disguised as shooting star, you do not wish on her.

One day she will land; it will be far, faraway from you.

79

ALEJANDRA DE LA FUENTEA PASSIVE RESISTANCE

Nothing But Laughter

88

nothing but laughterand a tie dye skyyet you doubt there is beautyin what lies before your eyes

a vast landscapefilled with nothing but joyvoid of the dishonesty

this is the momentthis is that placepresent in my dreamsand now reflected in my face

this smile, you seebrought about by its own willmy enthusiasm for likewill not be tainted can’t be killed.

Nicole Garcia

Daniel Ochoa, Venus Fl-eye Trap, Acrylic, Watercolor, and Markers

Join us in the courtyard for refreshements.

Please refrain from sitting in the cafe. That is reserved for patrons only.

Thank you for coming, and we hope you join us next year.

Our most sincere thanks to Mitch

Kaplan and the entire Books &

Books Staff who have hosted us

for the last seven years and who

continue to support the arts.

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We are Something About Jazz, a group that loves making